


Morning, Noon, and Night

by AuditoryCheesecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fond Mockery of Romance Novel Titles, Libraries, M/M, Selfies, Semi-Professional Drag, Slice of Life, Texting, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 01:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10205843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: Your coffee’s getting cold.Bull sends a selfie back in response, making sure to catch the mess of blankets Dorian left behind, and his ass, not at all under them.wish you were here, he types.He hears Dorian laugh in the kitchen, gets a picture of his face, mug held up to obscure his sleepy smile. His glasses are fogged with steam from the coffee, but the crinkles at the edges of his eyes are visible.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Uniqueinalltheworld ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld)and [Plenoptic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic) for looking this one over for me!! <3 <3 <3

The bed’s empty when Bull’s alarm goes off. It’s not a surprise, but it’s little disappointing. He likes waking up with Dorian. He likes staying under the blankets with Dorian’s toes brushing his calves, kissing the spot on Dorian’s neck that makes him giggle, drawing out the quiet moments together until they _have_ to get up.

It wasn’t always like that, of course. But it’s more like that each time Dorian stays over. Bull likes the soft spaces that they’re carving out of their lives, the time that they’re taking to be together.

The door to his bedroom is open, and he can smell coffee and something sweet happening in the kitchen; Dorian’s gotten pretty good at crepes since he’s started working with Vivienne. Bull still likes the Vint oat cakes he makes more, but he’s got a professional chef in his kitchen, so he’s not going to complain about any of it.

His phone buzzes with a text. _Get up!_ It’s Dorian. _Your coffee’s getting cold._

Bull sends a selfie back in response, making sure to catch the mess of blankets Dorian left behind, and his ass, not at all under them. _wish you were here_ , he types.

He hears Dorian laugh in the kitchen, gets a picture of his face, mug held up to obscure his sleepy smile. His glasses are fogged with steam from the coffee, but the crinkles at the edges of his eyes are visible.

He gets up slowly, stretches and washes his face in the bathroom. Dorian’s leaning on the doorframe by the time Bull’s dressed in just his pants.

“So that’s where my shirt went.” Bull tugs on the cotton when Dorian comes closer. He’s wearing it over his own shirt like a jacket.

“It’s not like you were using it.” Dorian stands on his toes to wrap his arms around Bull’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Shit, Bull loves this: Dorian in his home in the morning, happy and comfortable and smiling at him like he’s-- like maybe he’s got all the same feelings that Bull hasn’t figured out a way to talk about yet.

After a moment, Dorian pulls away. “I have to leave soon,” he tells Bull. “I was just coming to say goodbye.”

“How soon?” Bull asks, turning them so that he’s crowding Dorian up against the wall. He slides his hands up under Dorian’s shirt, just because he can.

Dorian laughs. “Twenty minutes. I know how long your goodbyes last.”

“Good.” Bull kisses him again. “You’re coming to the show tonight, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. Now stop wasting time.”

\--

Bull gets to work a little early, and spends some time wandering the stacks before his shift starts. He likes working at the library, even if he gets caught in the middle between Varric and Cassandra more often than not. He just shelves the books and lets them argue about the authenticity of gauffered page edges in Blessed Age manuscripts or whatever.

Saturdays are good days. He covers everyone’s lunch breaks at the circulation and reference desks, then fills a cart with books and spends three hours hunting down their homes. It’s straightforward, it’s orderly, and it’s quiet.

Totally by accident, he’s wound up with close to a third of the romance novel section that Cassandra swears she doesn’t curate. He leafs through one while he waits for the ancient elevator to wheeze its way down from the top floor.

It’s one of the really awful classics, _Mesmerized By The Magister!_ , complete with an exclamation point in the title.

The elevator clunks open. Bull would carry the cart up and down the stairs if it weren’t for his knee. He hates this thing.

Once it slides shut with a small screech, he punches the button for the third floor, where the fiction section is, and waits. To distract himself from the odds of the cable finally snapping and plunging him to his death, Bull pulls out his phone and snaps a selfie holding the book.

He sends it to Dorian and adds, _they wrote a story about me!!_

 _You’re awful._ Dorian texts back before the elevator stops. He’s on break early then, which is normal. He usually takes a breather before the lunch crowd comes in.

 _what about “enchanted by the enchanter?_ Bull asks. _or maybe “ensorcelled”? dunno by what, but it’s a good word_

Dorian doesn’t respond until Bull’s shelved half the books. _“Ensorcelled by the Elegant Expat.” I took a poll of the kitchen._

_what’s yours then? “tempted by the tal vashoth”?_

_Treasured, I should think._

Bull grins at his phone. _yeah, i like that better_.

\--

Bull’s loved dressing up ever since he was little, watching his Tama put on her makeup in the morning. He likes the feeling of the brushes, the colors, the process of transformation, the satisfaction of the finished product. Sometimes, the performance feels like an afterthought.

Those sometimes are only when he’s actually getting ready. When he’s in the wings or onstage, it’s the preparation that seems less important. But he’s still got plenty of time until then.

His tama had always liked golds and browns, more subtle colors. Bull, not so much. Tonight, the look is Xena: Warrior Princess, but pink.

He takes some pictures while his face is cooking, and sends them to Krem and Dorian.

 _Nice cheekbones chief,_ is all he gets from Krem.

Dorian sends him a picture of the front of the house-- completely packed-- and a text essay about the person who tried to send food back into Vivienne’s kitchen for not having enough salt.

Bull scrolls through the story fondly, then puts the phone down and does the rest of his makeup. He jokes sometimes that only having one eye makes the process go a lot faster, but he usually spends any time he might save making sure all the colors he uses are perfectly coordinated. He’s not satisfied until he’s flawless, from the bangles on the tips of his horns to the rhinestones on his heels.

He sends a picture of the shoes to Dorian too, since they’d been a birthday gift. It’s only the second time he’s worn them on stage, though they’ve been thoroughly broken in. Heels have lots of uses around the house when your boyfriend likes how tall you are, and how well they match your lingerie.

 _You’re going to make me jealous,_ Dorian responds a moment later.

_aww, you know the audience doesn’t get the full show_

_I was thinking more of the stage._ Bull can imagine Dorian’s smirk. _Sidenote, were you serious about driving? Because Sera’s created another unholy concoction and it actually tastes decent this time._

_go ahead, big guy. We wouldn’t want to disappoint her._

_Excellent,_ is the near-immediate answer. _Break a leg, sweetheart. But don’t break the heels._

\--

Sometimes Bull keeps everything on after a show, but he’s tired tonight, and the heels are starting to pinch a bit too much. 

His phone buzzes a few times while he’s wiping off his makeup, two texts from Krem and a snapchat from Rocky-- probably a video of whoever’s on stage now. Dorian’s quiet, but that’s not unusual.

He doesn’t bother with the buttons on his shirt or the laces on his shoes, just slides into the stuff that he’s chosen for being soft and easy to wear. The bar’s still full when he slips through the door. He was early in the night, and the stage is booked for drag until 10, and then a band. Bull’s not planning to be here that long.

Dorian’s at the table in the back where they usually wind up, and alone, though Bull can see Dagna’s purse on the seat next to him. He finds her at the bar chatting with Sera, and when he looks back at the table, Dorian’s seen him too.

The lights in the back are low and the lights onstage are flashing on the beat of _Like A Virgin_ but Bull can see Dorian smile. Smile at him, specifically. Bull can tell because he starts smiling too, without really meaning to.

Bull slides along the wall and sidles over to the table. “This seat taken?” he asks after he sits down.

Dorian tugs on his arm until he moves closer, and kisses him on the cheek. It’s quick but definite, and it pulls a rush of warmth out of Bull’s chest. It’s small things like this that had seemed impossible-- for both of them-- not so long ago, but are so easy now, that seem the biggest.

“How was Sera’s drink?” Bull asks, settling in and resting his foot on the chair across from him.

“Lethal,” Dorian says mournfully. “Dagna had to help me finish it.”

“Ha.” Bull wraps his arm around Dorian’s waist. “Weak.”

“I was a little distracted, of course.” He sniffs, mock-offended, before his face melts into a smile again. “You were especially spectacular tonight, you know.”

“Eh, I flubbed a couple lines in the second verse--”

“Well _I_ didn’t notice.” Dorian’s leaning against him now.

“You were looking at my ass, not my face.”

“True,” Dorian allows. “Although I have, on occasion, been known to multitask.”

Bull grins down at him, then covers a yawn with his hand. Dorian says something else, but it’s drowned out by a shift in the music.

“Sorry, missed that.” He leans closer to Dorian.

“I said you look tired. We should go home before you fall asleep on me.”

“That such a bad idea?” Bull teases.

Dorian smacks his chest lightly. “Just not the ideal order. Come on, you drive, and I’ll give you a massage.”

“Deal.” Bull stands, and holds a hand out to Dorian. “Your place or mine?”

“I said-- oh, I didn’t say, did I? Yours. My window still has that awful draft.” He leads Bull to the bar to give Dagna her purse, and then out the door, not letting go of his hand.

It’s much colder outside, and Dorian pulls him close. They walk slowly. “This is nice,” he says quietly.

“Ducking out of a drag show before eleven like a pair of old men?” Bull squeezes his hand, feeling Dorian’s fingers between his own.

“Yes,” Dorian says. “As long as it’s with you.”


End file.
